


Fleeting

by yeaka



Category: Outlander (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Other, POV Second Person, PWP, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21948844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: You have a romp in the woods with Lord John Grey.
Relationships: Lord John Grey/Reader
Kudos: 26





	Fleeting

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: **Fair warning** : I’ve only seen the show, this isn’t historically accurate, this is reader fic, and here it is anyway. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Outlander or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Your back hits the tree this time, and that’s how you wanted it—facing him for once, even though it probably would be smarter not to know each other’s faces. Of _course_ you know his. You don’t go to that tavern for the piss-poor ale. You go in and sit by the window for a chance of catching the eye of the handsome young lord who rides through every so often, and has that special air about him that he just might be _like you._ A single look is all it takes—no smiles, not yet, not while still out in the open—and one after the other, you’re out in the woods, too far for anyone to see the bright red of his jacket or hear the way you scream. Maybe a wild bear will come and kill you both for your sins, or just another drunk from the settlement, maybe something so dull as a boar. You don’t care. It’s worth the risk. He looks at you with that burning _hope_ in his eyes like maybe you’ll be the one to make him feel again, and it’s so worth it to try. 

You know John’s heart is broken. You know it’s in the right place. You’re honoured to see it, to know he trusts you enough to show that vulnerability, even though he shouldn’t—he doesn’t even know your name. You don’t give it. You let him press a bruising kiss against your mouth and fiddle with your breeches. They fall easily. You’re already prepared. You hoped this was coming. Fingers, oil, the whole works, but it’s still strange to feel his fingers probing there, running between your legs and checking with two blunt digits. One pets your outer walls, then dares to breach the rim, and suddenly he’s sliding _inside_ you, and you moan, “ _John._ ”

He shouldn’t have told you his name. You knew it anyway. _Lord John Grey_ , the most handsome creature to come riding through in years. It isn’t just that—his square jaw and bow lips, the incredible depth of his eyes—it’s the tender way he holds you, even though you’re a stranger. You can feel the strength in his hands, you know he’s a _soldier_ , but he’s so gentle as he lowers you down to the forest floor. He fucked you rough against the tree last time, and that was good, _perfect_ , left you limping but _so_ satisfied. But this is infinitely better. He looms over you, and there’s just enough starlight through the trees to appreciate the silhouette of his rugged body. The ground’s uneven and stray sticks and rocks dig into your back, but Lord John Grey is fingering you open, so you’re perfectly content. 

You rasp in his ear, “’M ready.”

He murmurs, “I know,” but keeps probing anyway, making sure—you’re sure he’d never hurt you. Would never hurt anyone. He might’ve killed hundreds in a dozen battles, but that’s different. He must not have wanted to. He’s loyal to his crown but fiercely _good_ beyond that—a man of true integrity. You know well enough how rare that is. 

Of course, a man with any decency wouldn’t slip away for stray sex in the woods, but you’re hardly one to judge. He finally withdraws his fingers and lines himself up. Your legs spread around him, knees clinging to his sides. It’d be nice if this could be different. If you were both properly naked, so you could see him in his full glory. A proper bed would be welcome. His horse, tethered to a nearby tree, makes for a poor witness. You’d love to untie the navy blue ribbon from his hair and run your fingers through the long brown locks, but you can’t muss him up too much. Bad enough that he’ll return with the stench of sex. But then, he must know how to hide it well enough by now. A man with his predilections becoming a lord isn’t easy, especially when he has as much experience as you think he must—he’s too good at it to be new to this sin. 

He presses at your entrance and pauses, hesitates, looks down at you like waiting for that final confirmation. It feels good to look into his eyes. It’s good that he sees you. He muttered _Jamie_ once into the side of your face as he came, and you pretended not to hear. 

Sometimes you wonder if this Jamie looks like you. How they could possibly not want John. Why aren’t they together. Surely John could turn even the most typical, masculine of men into a squirming mess—he isn’t _pretty_ like a woman, but he’s so much more _beautiful_. He drives inside you slow and careful, and that first nudge makes your breath catch, but you know enough not to seize up. Your hands lift to his broad shoulders and hold on. You lean your forehead up against his and tell him, “Go.”

He does. He’s good that way. He kisses your cheek and presses deeper, slides further, glorious bit by bit, and even with your preparation it _burns_ , but it’s wondrous anyway. It always feels strange to take something inside you there, but a warm, living cock is so welcome once it’s deep enough—once it’s at the perfect angle, hitting the perfect spot—he always finds it. He rocks into you like you’re some delicate maiden he doesn’t dare break. 

He gets as far as he’ll go, fully sheathed, and you shudder and wrap your arms fully around him. Pull him closer. Hug him tighter. You need a minute just to breathe, and he affords you that. 

Then you clench around him, and he starts moving—pulls half out, pushes all the way in, fucks you in long, languid strokes that make you arch off the earth. He opens his mouth across your neck, tugging your collar aside, and sucks a wet circle into your throat. Your moan echoes through the trees. This is _just_ what you needed.

 _John_ is what you needed. Whoever Jamie is, he’s a fool. John is _everything_. He consumes you, takes you hard but tender and rubs your inner walls just right. The wet squelching sounds, the slapping noise of flesh-on-flesh, and the rustle of your too elaborate clothes drown out under his laboured breath and your constant groans. You overheat quickly, _especially_ where he’s touching you, though the night air is cool. He nips his way up your chin and closes over your mouth—you eagerly open for his tongue.

He even kisses masterfully. Maybe that’s how he received his title. Maybe he has an _arrangement_ with the right people, who appreciate him for what he is. It’s a tale you’ll have to ask sometime. But then you remember that this is no date—just a quick shag in the woods. That realization always stings, because John’s a hard man not to love. 

John’s hands stray down your body. He’s an attentive lover, though you almost hold him off, because you want this to last, and he already has you so close. He feels you right through your clothes, kneading you and rubbing all the right places. Then he hits that one spot, and you can’t take it anymore. You buck up into him and gasp, “John—”

Pleasures washes over you. White hot, delightful, weightless pleasure, permeating every bit of your being—you tighten around him, needing him to follow, and he does not long after. He empties himself out inside you. He pulled out the first few times, but not anymore—you clamp your legs around him and keep him trapped. He kisses you right through it. His mouth steals all your air. His tongue has the faint taste of rum on it. You try to follow him when he leaves. 

But he sits up, out of your reach. You don’t have the energy to rise yet. You both stay there, panting hard, eyeing one another. You wonder if he’s comparing you to someone else. 

He pulls out of you too soon. You shiver at the loss, gaping wide and leaking. He’s courteous enough to do up your breeches after. There’s a brief moment where his fingers are still on you, so attentive, so _kind_ , and you want to ask if this can be something more.

But he kisses you with finality. He helps you up to your feet. You’re unsteady, but strong enough not to lean on him. 

You can’t even go back together. He opens his mouth, like he’s going to offer you his horse or something else, something better, an invitation—

It breaks off. He smiles sadly. You murmur, “Good bye, my lord.” And just like that, it’s over.


End file.
